


Lacing Seas

by honebami



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M, maki is also there, trans boy saihara and nonboynary ouma !
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-13 01:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honebami/pseuds/honebami
Summary: [ ndrv3 ch1-3 spoilers ]Saihara takes care of Ouma.





	Lacing Seas

"It's a lie!"

Saihara could only stare dumbstruck, blood rushing and sirens buzzing in his ears, as Ouma's not-quite-a-corpse hauled itself off the floor and staggered to its feet before him and Harukawa. "You were pretty surprised, right?" they said as blood dribbled down their forehead and into their mischievous grin.

"Wh-What are you doing?" Saihara stepped closer to Ouma with his hands raised.

Ouma just stared for a moment, their eyes unfocused, before they responded. "Aha… this is real blood, you know." They wobbled on their feet. "The...The fl-"  
Ouma's eyes glazed over and they crumpled forward like an unstrung puppet. Saihara caught their collapsing body against his chest. He shook their shoulders.

"This isn't funny, Ouma. Knock it off." Ouma didn't respond. "Ouma? Ouma!"

Harukawa peered at Ouma. "Are they dead?"

Saihara pressed his fingers into Ouma's neck; their heart was beating under his touch. "N-No. I think they just passed out. "

Harukawa huffed. "Then just leave them here."

"They've lost a lot of blood, though. I'd better get their wound taken care of." He shifted to support Ouma's small form slumped against him. "I-It's better not to move them while they're injured, I think. Could you... get a first aid kit?"

“Fine.” She turned on her heel.

Saihara sighed and wrapped his arms further around Ouma. Blood drooled from their forehead. He pulled them closer, the buttons of their shirt pressing against his belly, and cradled their head against him. It would always be uncomfortable for anything to touch his chest, at least for as long as he still needed to bind, but supporting Ouma's head took priority.

Harukawa returned, dropped the first-aid kit, and left as soon and silently as she came. Saihara lay Ouma down on a safe spot of the floor. The sticky heat of Ouma's blood on his skin curdled his stomach. Saihara rested a hand over the rise and fall of Ouma's belly; the soft pulse of a sea breathing.

He brushed Ouma's hair back and away from the gash across their forehead. With his other hand, he pulled Akamatsu's hairpin from his pocket and clasped it in the heat of his palm for a beat too long before pinning Ouma's bangs back. The pearly song of its shine sung against the inky swirl of purple curls. If she were here, Akamatsu wouldn’t mind her memento being used in this way. She wanted to be friends with everyone, even Ouma, hadn’t she?

Saihara took a deep breath and busied himself with the first-aid kit. Water-kissed gauze dyed with blood as he pressed it against the wound. Ouma’s face was unfolded beneath him. He'd never noticed the bags under their eyes. 

Ouma seemed like someone who couldn't be hurt, who could laugh in the face of death, who could toy with people as if they were plastic dolls whose joints they could push and snap. But unconscious like this, without a wicked grin or a truth-twisting tongue or eyes that pierced and scanned, they just seemed… Tired. Fragile. Like they would shatter and crumble into themself if you melted the sticky paste of lies and waste that held them together.

Saihara’s eyes flickered away from the dissonance of Ouma silent and small under his hands. He wiped the blood crusted around the wound and smoothed a bandage across. Their skin was cool against Saihara's palm as he scrubbed off the remains of that bloody mask. It would never be so easy to wipe away the masks of lies Ouma dripped with; but could he learn something from washing the blood away, from feeling the shape of their emptied face? The pad of his thumb ran over the bumps across their cheek. He smoothed a crease in Ouma's forehead with a wet finger before unclipping their bangs and brushing them down. He squeezed Akamatsu’s hairpin lightly and brought it to his mouth, to thank her for all she'd done or to apologise for all he'd done, before tucking it into the deepest corner of his pocket and patting it down.

Ouma’s eyes remained closed to the world; it wasn't safe to leave them unattended. Saihara lay on his side and breathed in time with Ouma as they crested and dipped.

His fingers brushed against their hand. Ouma's fingers moved against his. 

He let out a quiet yelp and moved to pull his hand back, but stopped short, his hand suspended between them. The blushed tips of his fingers were hot against Ouma's icewater skin.

He stretched those fingers further and clasped the small curl of Ouma's hand in his.  
It was faint underneath the chill, but it pulsed into him; the warmth of someone alive. His eyelids fluttered closed to the metronome of soft breath and Ouma's blurred thumb pressing back.

  


"Kin-kon-kan-kon!"

The static of the Monokuma announcement fizzed as Saihara blinked bleary eyes open. "Beary sorry, but your bearuty sleep will have to wait! It's time for the class trial! Don’t forget, attendance is pandatory. It may be cub-bear-some if someone’s hibearnating, but you'll just have to drag them there. Bearwell!"

Saihara groaned and yanked his hand free. "Ouma, wake up." He shook Ouma's shoulders, but the only response was the loll of their head and the roll of their drool.

The floorboards pressed against his knees as he knelt over Ouma. He’d been training; he could do this. He curled an arm under the small of their back. As he tried to pull them up, Ouma's head thumped against the floor. Saihara winced. He reached forward to support Ouma's neck with his other hand; and fell face first into a cotton cushioning of black and white.

He scrabbled up from Ouma’s chest, only to be held in place by the pull of laced fingers against his neck. Piercing purple eyes stared back into him.

A smirk twisted along Ouma's face. "What's this? Is my beloved Saihara trying to whisk me away?"

"N-No, I-you-uh-!" Saihara's skin swam with steam as he tried to pull his arm out from under Ouma.

Ouma laughed and pressed Saihara's arm harder against the floorboard. "Aww, why try to deny it when you've been taking such good care of me?"

Saihara stopped struggling. "W-Wait, how long have you been awake?"

Ouma rolled their head along the floor. "What are you talking about? I just woke up now." They giggled. "That's a lie, though! But to spend so much time watching over me… and even holding my hand..." Ouma’s smile would have been angelic were it coming from anyone else. They tugged Saihara down. "You must really love me, huh?" Ouma's words brushed against his lips.

"O-Ouma, wh-"

Ouma's smile sharpened and twisted upwards as if it were cracking. "Juuust kidding!" Their cackle shattered all traces of supposed softness. A flicker of spit hit Saihara. "I know better than anyone that no one could love a liar like me." 

The heat of Ouma's fingers unlaced from Saihara's skin. Ouma pressed up against him as they wriggled free. "But thanks for taking care of me anyway!" The squeak of their feet against the floorboards burst and faded in a little white flash. 

Saihara shook his clammy hands as he caught his breath. His brow furrowed. Did Ouma think that lowly of themself? They were a frustrating enigma, so swathed in lies that he probably hadn’t ever seen their authentic face; but he wanted to understand, to feel out the shape of the boy reflected and distorted in their funhouse mirrors.

He couldn't know if what Ouma had said was a glimmer of their truth or not. But when Ouma later brushed their fingers over their bandage, an inscrutable expression on their face, Saihara figured that, if nothing else, perhaps their gratitude wasn't a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> this is for my dear friend mocha !! thank you for reading !


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